thegentlemanthug | Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

Current Mood: numb

Entry tags:

Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

Bennet Drake isn't as young as he used to be.

When he was no more than a boy, but wore the uniform of a man, Drake could outmatch any private in his unit in a sprint or in the ring. While he's still got his boxing fists, his legs aren't up to scratch and that's why their suspect is getting away.

The Inspector took the right fork when Drake took the left, and their maverick doctor with a gun is somewhere nearby. And while Drake thinks Homer Jackson is a law unto himself that no self-respecting copper would touch with a barge pole, he's grateful for another man on their side this night.

Whitechapel is cloaked in fog and Drake is running blind.

Right into the lad he's chasing.

One minute later, he's on the ground. He doesn't remember the fall, as he watches the lad disappear into the fog.

But his hand is clasped tightly to his side and, when he lifts it away, his palm is red.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Jackson was behind the Inspector and the Sergeant when their paths had diverged, and he'd spent a moment of indecision trying to decide who he should follow. He cared more for the Inspector; he was the man he would want to give his protection to. But he also thought him more capable of holding his own, if it came to a fight.

And so, he'd taken the left fork.

He comes across the Sergeant on the ground, looking pained (though it was hard to see anything clearly through the fog). "Where did he go?" He demands, not aware of the extent of Drake's injuries, more concerned about catching their suspect.

"That way," Drake rasps, and tries to get to his feet.

But his legs won't cooperate, his whole body slumping against the filthy alley wall. "You'd best g-go after..."

He trails off as he loses breath, the whole alley starting to narrow. "Doc..."

"Long gone," Jackson shakes his head, giving up any thought of pursuit when he hears the laboured way the Sergeant is breathing. He knows that sound. More importantly, he knows it's not a good one.

"What did he do to you? Come on, own up." He's already dropping to his knees in the alley to try and see the damage.

"It's nothing," Drake says, but he doesn't believe it. "The Inspector...need to find him."

He tugs at Jackson's sleeve, trying to make him listen. "Could be hurt..."

"You're hurt, you fool," Jackson snaps, feeling for the wound and finding his fingers quickly slick with blood.

"Can you walk?" He hopes he can. He doesn't want to have to try and carry the Sergeant back through the back streets of Whitechapel. He knows what happens to men who do things like that, in this area of town.

"Oh," Drake says stupidly. "Course...course I can."

He'll stand if it kills him. He won't fall in front of Jackson. He's too proud for that - and he doesn't want them to be lynched.

Grabbing hold of Jackson's shoulder, he heaves himself up, swallowing down the groan.

"Easy, Sergeant," Jackson reaches out a steadying arm, keeping the other man from toppling straight back over.

"We've got a way to go."

"If we find the Inspector..." Drake starts, stumbling forward. He wants to crawl into the back of a police cab and find his way to the cheapest hospital in the city as quickly as possible.

"Never mind Reid," Jackson shakes his head, guiding Drake back towards the main street and the police station.

"He's a big boy. He'll look after himself just fine."

Drake's head is swimming. He wants to explain to Jackson that he's not minted like the swaggering American doctor, but he's finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other.

"T-take me to the London H-h-hospital. S'all I can a-afford."

"You can get better for free," Jackson promises, hurrying the other man along as fast as he dares. He can feel the blood seeping over his hand, and knows he needs to act quick.

"You British don't understand medicine."

"I understand the loss of shillings from my pocket," Drake mumbles, but lets Jackson frogmarch him towards the police station.

"And where's this bloody saviour then?"

"You're talking to him, darling," Jackson drawls, arm starting to ache from the weight of Drake against him.

"I'm so much more than just a pretty face."

Drake looks up at that, startled.

"The only men I've seen you cutting at are long since rotten."

He groans as they start up the steps to the police station door.

"And I would rather not join them."

"A man gets what work he can." If Jackson is offended, he doesn't show it.

"Doesn't mean I don't know how to do the day job."

Drake feels strangely light-headed and clings on to Jackson as they enter the relative warmth of the police station. There are other people around but his head's spinning too much to take it in.

"If the Inspector trusts you," he mumbles, "I trust you."

"Definitely time to stitch you up," Jackson jokes to hide his anxiety, all but dragging Drake the final few metres to his work space. He knows that there is animosity between them; the mumbled declarations of trust are more concerning than flattering.

Getting Drake to the room Reid had given him for his investigations, Jackson unceremoniously dumps Drake on the table before starting to gather what he needs. "How are you doing?" He asks as he works, keeping the Sergeant talking more than anything else.

Drake struggles to draw breath, one side of his chest a lead weight.

He coughs weakly, bringing his hand up like the gentleman he's never been. It's spattered with blood.

"Consumption..." he murmurs to himself, frightened beyond belief. He doesn't want to die like this.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Jackson rolls his eyes, splashing ether over a hankerchief once he's sure he has everything else he needs at his disposal. He can't have the Sergeant playing nurse, tonight.

"Breathe this," he demands, pressing the hankerchief to Drake's face before he has chance to protest.

The fumes are intense, and Drake coughs as he inhales.

The blackness comes on swiftly now and he just has time to grasp at Jackson's shirt as he fades.

"Trust you..." he mutters, then he sleeps.

Jackson is as quick as he can be with the tools that he has, cursing the lack of light, the lack of assistance, the lack of suitable surgical equipment. Cursing everything. He's aware, dimly, at some point, that he's attracting an audience, but he doesn't let it distract him from the task at hand. Let them watch, let them see what their Yankee doctor can do under pressure.

By the time he's done, he's aching and tired, sweat beading his brow. But the wound is fixed, and Drake lies sleeping on the dead room table. Jackson turns to clean his equipment - and himself - with more than a little satisfaction at a job well done.

The first thing he knows is that it hurts to breathe.

But Drake has always fought things which hurt him, so he breathes in slowly and deeply.

Then something in his side catches and he coughs, opening up a whole new world of pain.

Jackson's been dozing, fitfully, in his desk chair, microscopes and beakers pushed aside to give him a place to rest his head. He's wide awake, however, at the first sounds from Drake, and he's at his side at once.

"Whoa there, steady now," he places a comforting hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "Keep things slow."

Drake focusses on Jackson's face, consciously trying to match his breaths. He takes short, halting breaths at first, the hand at his shoulder grounding him as he fights against the pain in his side.

His head is thick and musty and he feels like he's freezing, but he's in one piece. Thanks to Homer Jackson.

"Not dead then," he rasps.

"'Course you're not," Jackson shakes his head, offering a smug smile.

"You've got the best doctor in all of London town at your personal beck and call. You've got just nothing to worry about, darling."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject